“He accidentally shot himself. Chest wound. Take him. Please, take him quickly and save him”

Damascus

Pierre found himself crying as he dragged the prince’s limp body through the snow. The wolves were advancing; he could see their eyes glowing in the darkness. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to collapse. He knew that if he did, he would never arise, and neither would the prince.

“We’re lost, lost, so lost….” Pierre sobbed, the breath from his lips crystalizing in the frigid air. “Searching, but finding nothing…. There’s only darkness. So lost…. Who will ever find us? We are literally drowning in this darkness, this cold….”

Pierre’s words could have been describing the state of the Jewish People. Millions of Jewish souls, sparks of holy fire, precious offspring of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov Avinu, marching through the darkness of galus without any clue who they are or where they’re going, drowning in a world of sheker, a world of hester Panim, Rachmana litzlan….

“Lost… lost in the darkness….”

The cold was worsening, the wolves were closing in.

Suddenly, rifle fire filled the air. Flashes sparked in the brutally cold night. Pierre could hear voices. They were saved!

From the surrounding darkness, men burst forward, torches and weapons in hand. The wolves snarled angrily, their eyes boring into Pierre’s one last time.

The prince’s soldiers had arrived.

“What happened to the prince?” Their torches cast shadows across their faces and uniforms.

“He accidentally shot himself. Chest wound. Take him. Please, take him quickly and save him.”